


Homecoming

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Nessian - Freeform, Post-ACOWAR, post-bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: Cassian really misses his feisty mate.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Because y’all know this precious overgrown bat baby would straight up sulk (like whine-at-the-door-and-paw-at-it sulk) if Nesta was gone for too long.

He missed her. 

That was all. He missed her.

“So write her a godsdamn letter,” said Azriel, dancing along the edge of the sparring ring. He’d been on the receiving end of Cassian’s fists all morning and had yet to be reprieved. “It’s only been a week, Cas. We’re all getting tired of your moping.” 

“Who says I’m moping?”   

“Everyone,” his brothers said in unison.

Cassian turned to scowl at Rhys, who had been sharpening his sword on a nearby bench. “Yes, everyone,” he added smugly. “Feyre, Amren, Elain...”

“Elain?”

Azriel smirked. “The actual word she used was ‘cranky.’”  

“I am  _not_ cranky.”  

“An understatement if there ever was one,” Rhys drawled. “I think what sweet Elain actually meant was: insufferable ass.”

Cassian growled.

“Right. Because you acted like a godsdamned ray of sunshine when Feyre handed herself over to our enemies in the Spring Court.” He bared his teeth. “How did it feel knowing your mate was in danger and all you could do was wait? Because I sure as hell feel like shit and am in _no mood_ for this today.”

Rhys’ violet eyes remained cool, but Cassian could detect a flicker of guilt that almost made him feel sorry. Almost.

“Point taken,” said Rhys. “I apologize, brother.”

“So do I,” said Azriel.

Cassian sighed.

It had been Rhys’ idea for Nesta to travel south to strengthen their ties with the mortal realm, which was now horribly fractured thanks to those treacherous wyrm-queens. As emissary, it would have been Nesta’s duty to go. But Rhys always believed in having a choice, so he gave her one.

Of course she decided to go. Of course Cassian understood the importance of her going. She wanted to do something for her people. She wanted to see the world. And deep down, he knew he could never blame Rhys for granting her that wish in the first place.  

But that didn’t mean Cassian had to like it, especially since it meant that she would be gone indefinitely.

“Mother knows Nesta can take care of herself,” he went on. “Hell, if she were here, she’d be the first one to kick my sorry ass all the way to the Rainbow. But this…this isn’t easy for me.”

He already failed her once—the memory still horrifically fresh despite everything that happened between them since. There were some nights where he could still hear her screams as Hybern’s men forced her into the Cauldron. He would wake up on those nights in a cold sweat, unable to be calmed by anything except his mate’s arms.

He had seen over half a millennia of death and destruction, had been the harbinger of both himself, but _never_ had he been so overcome by such breathless rage and sheer terror as he was in that moment. They laid hands on his mate...had violated her beyond imagining...and he had been completely and utterly helpless to stop it.  

_Never again._

“She’ll be all right, Cas,” said Azriel. “Mor is with her and so is Lucien for whatever that’s worth.”

Cassian shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

The point was that he made a promise to protect her, and he didn’t like breaking promises twice.

* * *

Several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t returned.

Cassian could still feel her though, much to his relief. He knew she couldn’t cross the bridge of their bond too often; not with so many enemies nipping at her heels. Still, he could feel her—her warmth burning inside him like an eternal flame.

He noticed it most often when his moods grew so black that even _he_ couldn’t tolerate himself.

Sometimes, it felt like a flare—as though she were chastising him from afar for behaving like a prick. Sometimes, it felt like the glowing embers of the firelight at their hearth, soothing him like nothing else after another grueling day at the war-camps. Other times, it blazed and smoldered, and he knew without words that she longed for him as much as he longed for her.  

Thank the Mother she also sent him letters, though they were few and far between. The first one came shortly after his quarrel with his brothers.

_Dearest—_

_I wish I could write more_ ,  _but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Your family tells me you’ve been acting like_ _an insufferable ass_. _I wrote them back asking if they only just noticed. Is my absence really all that unbearable? I promise you: I am whole and safe and healthy._

_So stop sulking. You big, ugly brute._

_N._

It was the first time Cassian had laughed in days. He looked at that letter for hours, marveling at her elegant hand, no doubt trained by a slew of governesses by the time she was out of swaddling. It made him more than a little self-conscious about his own blocky chicken scratch, since he hadn’t learned how to read or write until Rhys’ mother taught him.

_Sweetheart—_

_What can I say except that this big, ugly brute misses you? And yes,_ _it’s unbearable_ _. Almost no one says anything nice about my hair now that you’re not here to braid it! But in all seriousness: I want you home. I want you in our bed. I want to do all the wild and filthy things I said I would do once we became mates. Do you remember? If not, I’ll make damn sure to remind you. Thoroughly._

_Stay safe. Come back to me._

_C._

He watched the paper vanish, only to return a few moments later.

It was the same letter he just wrote, only with a note added to the end.

_‘I’ll make damn sure to remind you.’ Is that a promise, my dear Commander? Or a threat?_

_Either way, I’ll come..._

_N._

Never was Cassian more sure that he had mated himself to an actual _goddess_.

* * *

Another several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t come home.

But rather than sink into despair, Cassian threw himself into the one thing he was good at: violence. Needless to say, his legions bore his relentless ferocity with varying shades of bitterness and a little more than fear.

“Take a timeout, Cas,” Rhys drawled. “I mean it.”

This, after an evening of drilling that had their soldiers practically begging for the Mother’s mercy. True, Cassian’s training had been nothing short of brutal, savage, and unyielding. But Illyrians were nothing if not resilient and cunning bastards—and Cassian was the prince of them all.   

“There’s still more to do.”

“There’s always more to do,” said Rhys. “But at the pace you’re setting? We’d be lucky if our men can _stand_ let alone fly at first light.” He turned to him, gaze softening. “Be honest. How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago when Cassian made some jest about Rhys’ mating bond _chafing_ at him _._ Now having experienced it himself, he realized that it didn’t really chafe as much as it burned a fucking hole through his mind, fraying layers upon layers of rational thought. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself in check...and sometimes even that was not enough.

“It’s not an uncommon reaction,” said Rhys. “Especially among new mates.”

Cassian swallowed.

Some mates didn’t leave each other’s sides for weeks, months even, after they consummated their bond. Nesta left mere _days_ after the tenuous thread between them snapped into place.

“Have you called out to her?”

He had—his mental cries ringing like a bloodsong in his ears. But the wall that held Nesta’s thoughts remained cold and silent, surrounded by freezing mist. Nothing could penetrate it, no matter how hard he tried. All he could hear was the echo of his own desperation. A primal howl that longed to be answered.

_Where are you? Where are you?_ **_Where are you?_ **

“I tried. There’s nothing.”

Her letters had stopped as well. The last one unnerved him so much he nearly flew to the mortal continent himself—orders be damned.

_I’ve had quite enough of the mess these traitorous queens left behind. The matter of their succession is a thorny one. I pray we all won’t bleed out by the end of it. Vassa plans to host a summit at her palace to end this farce once and for all. Lucien is suspicious of anything that breathes. Morrigan even more so. I myself wouldn’t be surprised if the whole affair was crawling with assassins._

_My love, I’ll have to tread very carefully now. I’ll send word as soon as I can._

_N._

That had been ten days ago, and still no word had come—from either Nesta, Lucien, or Mor.

“If anything happens to her, Rhys…,” he said, clenching his fists hard enough to draw his own blood.  

In truth, he didn’t know what he would do...save tearing the world apart to find her and wreaking bloody vengeance on anyone who did her harm.

“It’s a good thing the Archerons are so formidable then. And hardy.” A reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come back, Cas. You’ll see.”   

It was a long moment before Cassian nodded.

“I know she will.”

_She has to._

* * *

The next few days passed in a gray blur that held no meaning for the General Commander. Crops of fresh recruits had arrived from the neighboring clans, gawking and gaping at him as he stalked through their ranks, his Siphons pulsing bright and deadly at random intervals.

“I heard he killed a Hybern commander…”

“I heard his mate killed Hybern _herself_ …”

If the days were miserable, the nights were their own kind of agony. He tossed and turned, his fitful sleep lanced by the same nightmares. Nesta screaming. Nesta sobbing. Nesta broken and bloody. _Nesta, Nesta, Nesta._

**_Where are you?_ **

Then suddenly…

_I’m here._

Cassian shot out of bed, nostrils flaring as he took in that unmistakable scent. The scent of wind and rain and thunder and lightning. The scent of storms and the clash of steel. He scrambled out of his tent, not even bothering to don his full armor before spreading his wings and darting straight for the camps.

A small crowd gathered in the main pavilions, Rhys and Azriel among the circle. A familiar flash of gold told him that Morrigan was also there, giving them her full report. The Fox, however, was nowhere in sight. And his mate...where was his mate?

_I’m here, I’m here, I’m here..._

He could feel her then, his heart beating wildly as the thread between them went taut as an anchor.

There.

She was standing apart from the rest of the group, speaking softly to a squadron of Illyrian females—one of the few that had been allowed to continue their training despite the odds.

He dived for her, landing so hard a small crater had formed in the bed of canyon rock. But none of the surrounding gasps or murmurs reached his ears as his vision narrowed to the most beautiful female in the world. 

She turned to him then and his breath hitched at the sight.

Blue-grey eyes widened on a face that was partially sooty, as though she had walked through fire to get here. Her Illyrian leathers gleamed in the moonlight, the scales worn and muddy but not beyond repair. Tendrils of golden-brown hair escaped from a crown of braids, falling on the bare skin of her neck that captured most of his attention.

He wanted to say something clever—romantic, even. But he had never been good with those kinds of words and besides, the words didn’t come. Once again, his mate had rendered him speechless.

She marched toward him, her pace so quick and purposeful that he wondered if she was preparing to strike. Instead, she yanked his face down to deliver a kiss that seared his very soul, her tongue demanding entrance, her body giving off the not-so-subtle heat of her arousal.

He growled into her mouth as he embraced her, wrapping his wings around her to shield them from the catcalls and dirty jokes. She molded herself into his arms, almost grinding on him as he broke away to trail eager kisses down her cheek, her jaw, and finally to that lovely, lovely neck. Impossibly, she held him tighter.

_Nesta..._

_I’m here. I’m home._

Then she leaned in to whisper in the shell of his ear.

“Care to remind me of what I’ve been missing while I was away?”

He grinned. “Well...I did make you a promise, didn’t I?”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian really misses his feisty mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Nesta’s back and Cassian gets super clingy! Not that Nesta minds her big bad bae wanting *all of her attention* even when he’s being *zero chill* about it.

Cassian couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop touching her, couldn’t stop _breathing in_ his mate’s intoxicating scent like it was some kind of ambrosia.  

“Mongrel,” said Nesta.

“ _Your_ mongrel,” he purred into her neck. “You love it when I’m all over you like this. I can tell…”

A red flush bloomed across her cheeks, making him greatly aware of where else he could make it appear on her body. Cauldron, he was half-hard already from her squirming in his lap—no matter that they were in their High Lord’s tent and thus in plain view of anyone who happened to walk by.

Apparently, there was no shortage of busybodies eager for a glimpse of his fearsome mate.

“Stop that,” she hissed, swatting the hand roaming along her inner thigh, its destination clear. “Everyone can _see_...”

“I _want_ them to see,” he crooned. “I want them to know that you’re mine, Nesta Archeron. More importantly, I want them to know that I’m yours.”

He nipped at that sensitive spot below her ear, his teeth and tongue coaxing out a lovely whimper that went straight to his cock.

“Mother’s tits, how I’ve _missed_ that sound,” he said, worrying at the same spot over and over until she was shivering—whether from desire or frustration, he didn’t know, but it was delicious all the same. “I’m going to devour every inch of you, sweetheart...”

“More like...mmm...the other way around,” she said, so breathlessly he was tempted to just throw her onto the floor and mount her right there. “Idiot.”

Funny how Nesta’s insults had begun to sound like terms of endearment. And funny how they only whet his ravenous appetite for her, instead of incensing him as they once did. _Fucking hell. What has she done to him?_ At this rate, he’d probably have to _stride_ out of there, cock aching, and his wicked little minx knew it.

“You wanted me to remind you of what you’ve been missing,” he said. “By tomorrow morning, you’ll be wearing all my reminders on your skin.”

“Oh?”

She turned to face him, something simmering in those steel blue eyes of hers. Something fierce and greedy and so utterly _possessive_ that it both thrilled and terrified him in unending measure. All he felt for her. All she felt for him. That feverish and raging intensity that could only be described as a chain forged in flames between their two warring souls.

_Nesta...my Nesta..._

_Cassian..._

It was the obnoxiously loud noise of someone clearing their throat that broke their thrall.

“If you were two are done being absolutely disgusting,” said Rhys, appearing at the tent’s threshold. “I'd like a word with my emissary.”

* * *

 

Nesta almost started as Cassian’s arms wrapped around her like a vice. No doubt some primal instinct overriding what little shred of good sense he had. From the way her mate was snarling at the High Lord, hackles raised, one would think he was about to snatch her away.

 _Now now, my love,_ she murmured through the bond, each word a cool and soothing caress. _Behave..._

Rhysand, wisely, stayed where he was. Though his expression was practically gleaming with wry amusement.

“You’re one to talk,” she said, primly. “The way you carry on with my sister. But please, _do_ provoke him. I’ve been in dire need of entertainment since my extended leave of absence.”

A small tug at the corner of Rhysand’s lips. “Well, I’m sure my brother will provide all the entertainment you need.” He winked. “And then some.”

The low and guttural noise that erupted from her mate’s chest was like nothing Nesta ever heard. Though she had seen firsthand how...territorial fae males could be. It frightened her sometimes. How deep her mate’s feelings for her could run—as deep as the root of her own soul.

She reached for him, cupping his face between her hands, thumbs smoothing over that dreadful scowl until it melted away under her touch. “Dearest,” she murmured. “You’ll have to let me go if I’m to parry with the High Lord.”

Cassian did no such thing.  

She pursed her lips, then leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Beloved…”

Her mate stilled, a small tremor running through the great folds of his wings—just as it did the first time she called him so.

Nesta had many names for her mate. “Idiot” and “fool” when she was cross. “My dear” when she was absolutely livid. She called him her “dearest” when she wished to be listened to and “my love” when she wished to calm that ferocious predator lurking beneath his skin. But she knew her mate loved it best when she called him her “beloved” because it meant that he belonged _solely_ to her. Not to his armies. Not to his friends. But to _her,_  and her alone.

The first time she said it, she could feel...such unfathomable joy. His, as well as hers. Their happiness entwining like two creatures curling into one another. Nesta didn’t realize how much it would mean to him. How _whole_ it made him feel to have someone claim him as their own, after a lifetime upon lifetime of being cast out and unwanted...

“Beloved,” she whispered again. “The sooner I speak to your brother, the sooner we can leave.” She bit his earlobe—hard, the way he liked. “And the sooner we can play together…”

 _That_ seemed to capture his attention, his soft rumble of approval saying more than words ever could. She rewarded him when he loosened his hold, grazing his cheek with the tip of her nose, taking in that familiar scent of earth and sky and woodsmoke.

She didn’t go far (it was just across _the room_ for Mother’s sake), but she could practically feel the sharpened end of her mate’s glare as it narrowed in on their High Lord.

“You spoil him too much,” said Rhysand.

She arched a haughty brow. “I hardly see how that’s any of your business, seeing how much you spoil Feyre in turn.”

He grinned. “Fair enough, dear sister.”

She scoffed. They walked through different hells, the two of them. Rhysand sacrificing his life. Nesta sacrificing her humanity. Yet despite everything they had been through, despite the mutual love they shared for their Commander (and High Lady), it would take Nesta a long time to get used to calling this self-satisfied and arrogant male her _family_.

He earned her respect, however. Begrudgingly so, but he earned it. And they both supposed that was a start.

She reached into a small leather satchel below her belt, handing him a finely wrought scroll box bearing the seal of a rising phoenix—the house crest of Queen Vassa. Rhysand took it with a curious glance, a glance that turned even more curious when he rattled it about.

“Sounds like you included more than just a written report.”

Nesta shrugged. “I may have taken the finger bones of an errant queen or two.”

Rhys’ eyes widened. “If only the Carver were still here...I imagine you have _quite_ the story to tell.”

“Not quite as interesting as coming back from the dead,” she quipped. “But interesting enough to keep you preoccupied for the evening. I assume you already gleaned what you needed to from Morrigan?” A curt nod. “Then you’ll know that Lucien has chosen to stay behind to tie up loose ends.”

“I’m sure Elain and Azriel will be heartbroken to hear the news,” said Rhysand.

A knowing smirk passed between them.

“Do you think the Lord of Foxes will elect to stay there permanently?”  

Nesta shook her head. “I don’t know that he’ll go so far as to declare allegiance to Vassa’s court. But he fits in rather well on the continent and has become a _very_ passionate advocate of her reign. She inspires something in him, I think.”

“Not entirely surprising,” said Rhysand. “I hear like calls to like.”

She snorted.

“And how was the rest of your journey?” said Rhys. “Aside from the bloodshed and all the courtly trappings of political intrigue?”

She paused, considering. “Long, tiring. The world is so much bigger than I thought. There’s so much to see, so much _life_ that's worth protecting. Still, I'm glad to be here. Glad to be...home.”

 _With him_ , she said, mind-to-mind. _Him, most of all._

Rhys tilted his head, those starlit violet eyes quiet and observing.

“I may have underestimated you, Nesta Archeron,” he said finally. “You are...not at all what any of us has expected.”  

“Let Feyre know that I’d like to have _that_ as an engraving.” She turned back to face her mate, who had been watching the entire exchange with a look that could have charred raw meat. If Illyrians had been born with tails as well as wings, she knew Cassian would have been swiping his back and forth in irritation. “Now, if you’re done wasting my time, I have a mate to spoil.”

Nesta strode towards him, her long and delicate fingers reaching out to grasp his rough and callused ones.

Strange, how it reminded her of that first time...in the foyer of the town house, shortly after his return from the Battle of Adriata. She had been so worried for him then, so confused by her own emotions that she had been unable to tell him so. And he had not thought to come speak to her at all, because he didn’t know if she cared whether he lived or died.

Everything was so different now.

 _They_ were different now.

She knelt before him, using her other hand to stroke those dark locks from that beautiful face—the face she conjured in her dreams all those lonely and uncertain nights without him.

“To bed?”

He wasted no time scooping her up into his arms, his body thrumming with longing and anticipation. They swept past a very smug looking Rhys, launching into the night sky without a backward glance.

The boom of wings that followed could have been heard across the mountains.

* * *

 

Cassian’s tent was stationed far above the main pavilions, surrounded by a rocky outcropping that shielded it from the high winds.

“Why so far away from the camps?” she asked, when he set her on her feet. During the war, he kept his quarters with the rest of the legions. It seemed strange that he would now choose to lodge somewhere more...remote.

“Not sure,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Old habits, I guess.”

A sharp pang rippled throughout the chambers of her heart, a pain so cutting she wondered if Cassian could feel it. _Of course_ , she thought. As a bastard, he had been driven out and shunned for merely existing. With Hybern, his proximity to his soldiers had been a practical necessity. But out here on the Steppes, among his people and their cruel ways…

He had been forced to live on his own, to struggle and steal and survive any way he could. Alone. Not even a headstrong younger sister to...to turn to for...

“Hey now,” he whispered, tipping her chin up. “There’s no need for that.”  

Nesta loosed a breath she didn’t even know she was holding, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. _What did Cassian see?_ she wondered, looking into his hazel eyes. _That maelstrom of feeling brewing inside her? The guilt? The anger? The sorrow for all the wrongs and hurts of the past?_

“Sweetheart,” he said, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “The only thing I see is a woman who drives me _mad_ with wanting.”

The kiss he gave her was a chaste one, yet the intimacy—the shelter—it promised made her burn for him all the same. So she returned it with enough fire and fervor to make him pulse with pleasure, his Siphons flickering.

“Let’s take this inside?” he asked, his expression positively feral. “Unless you’d rather have a go out here.”

She rolled her eyes before ducking into his tent.

It was just as large as Rhysand’s, though sparsely decorated. There were no exotic cushions or carpets or frivolous setees to be had. Just a bed of furs, a rack of steel, and a dummy that wore a set of armor hewn from dark red scales—scales that could supposedly repel weapons tipped with faebane. A gift, he told her, from the clever tinkers of the Dawn Court. Should Cassian deem it worthy, they would begin outfitting the rest of the legions.

There was also a war table, dimly lit from a lantern of faelight swinging overhead. It was overflowing with all manner of maps and scouting reports. But what caught Nesta’s attention was a small stack of letters bound with a dark blue ribbon.

Her letters. Her ribbon.

“You kept them?”

“Of course I did,” he said, embracing her from behind, chin resting against her shoulder. “I wouldn’t be have been able to stay sane otherwise.”

Again, that naked sincerity. Her mate could be so...impossible sometimes. Impossible for her to understand. His heart was bared for all to see, his intentions pure and and clear and unmuddied. How she wished she could be as open as he was, as _free._   

But for now, she was content to lay aside her walls for him and him only. And as for sharing her true self with others...perhaps that would come with time. Time they both now had.

“I’ve been wondering where this ribbon went,” she said. “I thought Feyre or Elain might have borrowed it. And here they say _I’m_ a thief.”  

He chuckled, the dark and warm sound sending a flutter through her belly. “You can have it back if you want. I have others.”

“Others?”

He nodded towards the swords he kept on the nearby rack, each one of them of varying length but just as deadly as the next. But upon closer inspection...

“Cassian! Are those…?”

All of them. _All_ of his swords had her ribbons—black and gray and ivory and emerald—wrapped around their crossguards in haphazard knots.

“What did you _do_? Plunder my whole vanity?”

He shrugged, like it was all perfectly natural. “More or less. I don’t see what the fuss is about. I can get you new ones if you want.”

“But why…?”

“Why?” He yanked her against him. “ _Why_?”

And here his voice grew hot and honeyed and oh so very, _very_ dangerous.

“Because Nesta, there wasn’t a _single_ moment that passed when I didn’t think of you.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Didn’t think of holding you...” His skimmed the curves of her body. “Didn’t think of _touching_ you…” He cupped her breasts. “Didn’t think of fucking you _senseless._ ” His cock pressed into her backside, hard and throbbing. “I needed something, _anything_ , to carry with me, to remind me of you. How you smelled. How you tasted. How you look at me when you…”

“Stop talking,” she said, breathlessly. “Just...stop talking.”

* * *

They went for each other, the heat between them exploding like wildfire. Grasping turned into clawing. Kissing turned into biting, just a hair’s breadth away from vicious—but Cassian wouldn’t have it any other way. With Nesta, he could go as rough as he wanted because she understood all his jagged edges as much understood hers.

_Cassian...Beloved…_

He surged for her, the both of them colliding into the table so hard that it scraped a few inches across the floor. Frantically, she began to undo her leathers, her clever fingers fussing over the intricate hooks and ties. But Cassian had never been good at _waiting_ and he had been so, so patient.

“Nesta,” he groaned. “I need...I need to have you.”

_Here. Now._

So he released a small wave of his power—a warm red light washing over them both. Until all their clothes shredded and melted away, belts and daggers and Siphons clanging noisily onto the floor.

They stood before one another, caught in the tempest of their own lust. It stunned him. How beautiful his mate was when she was like this—bared to him in the most carnal of ways. And Mother above, she was practically _soaking_ between her legs, his cock twitching at the devastatingly erotic sight, blood pounding madly in his ears.

Then she sank to her knees, pressing kisses to the trail of coarse, dark hair beneath his stomach, and it was a wonder that Cassian didn’t simply _die_ right there from bliss.

She lapped at the tip of him, almost purple now with strain, before opening that wicked mouth of hers to take in his entire hot length, deep enough to hit the back of her throat. She had been so _nervous_ the first time she tried this, wary and unsure and a little more than self-conscious. It had been pure curiosity that drove her to perfect her pleasuring of him, and Cassian could only marvel at her eagerness to love him this way, to put aside her own desires to stoke his own.

Then all thought drained from his mind like water in a sieve when she began to swirl her tongue under the ridge of his flesh. And when she clasped him with her fingers and began to _stroke_ him in earnest, back and forth…. back and forth...her head bobbing... It had taken nearly half a millennia of training to keep his legs from buckling underneath him like some unblooded novice warrior.

And if she continued her passionate onslaught this way...

“S-stop,” he choked, hands tangling in her hair. “Sweetheart...no...I can’t...no....”

She suckled and stroked him a few more times, slow and steady and _agonizing_ , her lips making an obscene, wet sound when she pulled away.

“But I wanted to spoil you,” she said, pouting in that mocking way that only worsened his frenzied arousal.

Without preamble, he hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried her to his bed. There was a lot of vulgar cursing that followed. “Stop squeaking,” he said, reaching up to spank her (and damn him if she didn’t just _moan aloud_ as he did so). “You say you want to _spoil_ me?” He threw her down, pinning her beneath him, wings flaring to their full span on either side. “Then come ride me, girl.”

His mate’s nostrils flared when he rolled them over, his rough hands seizing her hips until that sweet, glorious cunt was poised above his length  _just so_. And although he was panting through his nose like an agitated bull, he stilled...and waited. Waited until those blazing eyes of hers softened. Waited until she reached up to undo those braids, those golden-brown tresses falling over those gorgeously full breasts of hers.

Then she slid something around his wrist, and he turned to see her tie a new ribbon around him—bright and scarlet as freshly spilled blood.

The color of his Siphons.

“I thought of you too,” she whispered, her emotions swirling to the surface once more. “I thought of you often...I missed you so much…”

Shock. Awe. To think that Nesta Archeron would confess to something so raw and intimate—to _him_ , of all people. It was though she had stolen away his very soul...and maybe she had.

“How much did you miss me?” he asked, thumb circling over a rosy nipple. “Tell me, Nesta. Tell me how it felt.”

Again, that strange and preternatural simmering behind her eyes, like tendrils of smoke under shards of glass.

Then slowly, sweetly, she took him inside her—singeing every nerve inside his body until he was nothing but liquid fire.

 _So full,_ she crooned to him. _So right..._

“Fuck!” he roared, head thrown back as the sheer ecstasy of being joined threatened to shatter him. All traces of coherency deserted his senses, his words slurring into grunts and growls as his beautiful mate rode him….and rode him _hard_. Up and down in a steady and unrelenting rhythm. Her cries rang out from their tent—and possibly into the camps below. If anyone _didn’t_ know his name before tonight, they would by tomorrow morning.

 _Good_ , he thought. _Let them hear. Let them know she laid claim on him._

“Being without you…felt like….felt like starving,” she gasped, her inner muscles clenching him so hard that he had to grit his teeth. “N-nothing could sate me...not even my own hand.”

He whined at her. Actually _whined_. “More...tell me more.”

“I touched myself anyway...thinking of you...of what we have….” She bit her lip, eyes screwed shut against the mounting pressure between them. Any moment now, she would break apart in his arms. He eased the way, guiding her hips to roll at a faster pace. “I thought about what you do to me...the fire you make feel...even when we aren’t...ah...like, like this…and, oh...oh _Cassian._..”  

It was the blooming of her own climax that sent him hurtling over the edge. He sat up, taking her shuddering body into his arms as he came, spending himself inside her as he chanted, “Nesta, Nesta, Nesta,” like a prayer against the crook of her neck. It could have been minutes, it could have been eternity _—_ but by the old gods, he was still _coming_ even as Nesta collapsed against him in boneless relief.

By the time he was done, he felt barely alive and there was nothing but silence and softness between them. Their desires sated...for the moment. 

Then…

_I love you...I love you, Cassian._

His eyes burned at the wetness against his shoulder. A wetness that had nothing to do with the sweat between their bodies.

“I know,” he said. “I...I love you always.”

There had been a time where Cassian had been terrified to say those words aloud, of what they would unleash, of what they would set in motion. But there were no regrets as he clung to her, nose buried in her long and lovely hair. Gods, this woman, this female. So strong and so very, very precious. Even with their bond, would Nesta ever really know how much he treasured her? If not, he would spend the rest of his life proving it, starting with tonight as he had her again. 

And again and again and again.

And by the time the sun rose on the distant horizon, his mate indeed wore _all_ his reminders on her skin.

Just as he wore hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who enjoyed Part 1! You guys are the best :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the very last part :’) Thank you all for coming for the ride! Please enjoy some domestic cuddles, brother bonding, swordplay, and bath time!

Dawn bled into noon by the time Azriel’s voice drifted into the General Commander’s tent.

Cassian cracked open a bleary eye, his naked body still curled around Nesta’s. His mate stirred, but did not wake. Given the rigorous evening they had, he didn’t expect her to. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of her neck, grazing the downy hairs there.

Mother above, how he wanted her. As if he hadn’t spent all night re-mapping every curve and dip of her body.  

Azriel called him again. Loudly.

Cassian swore as he rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb Nesta as he did so. Luckily, the instincts that roared at him to _defend what was his_ the night before had quieted down to a sleepy and sated rumble. Otherwise, he would have stormed out of his tent, teeth bared, ready to fight off any male, brother or no.

Instead, he emerged a few moments later wearing nothing but a loose pair of pants and a somewhat irritated expression.

“Keep your voice down,” he growled. “She’s still asleep.”

The peevishness in Azriel’s expression said he had obviously drawn the short stick when it came to waking him up...and coaxing him away from Nesta. If Cassian hadn’t already been annoyed, he would have found it funny.

“You have one hour,” said the shadowsinger. “If you’re not in the field by then, Rhys will barge into your tent and winnow you there himself. And you know how much he loves to stick his nose into other people’s business. Especially ours.”

Cassian shrugged. “What do I care?”

“You may not,” said Azriel. “But Nesta will.”  

Cassian then felt a familiar tug in his chest, a strong pull that made him turn back to his tent. Then her voice, husky from sleep, called to him from across that bridge.

_Beloved..._

“One hour,” said Azriel. “Or I tell Rhys to bring Morrigan too and you know she’s an even bigger busybody than he is.”

Cassian made a vulgar gesture at Azriel’s retreating back. Drills or no, he wasn’t the type to leave loose ends, especially if they concerned his mate.  

* * *

Cassian returned to find his mate wide awake, lounging on their bed as she paged through one of her well-worn books. He adored seeing her like this. She had rolled onto her stomach—her hair loose and spilling across her back, those bare and gorgeous legs swinging idly from underneath one of his woolspun tunics.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to make you cry,” she said, putting aside her book.

“Not even a full day since you’ve returned, and already you're laughing at my expense.”

“I’m not laughing at your expense, dearest. Just _smirking_ at it.”   

“Is that why you dragged me in here? To tease me?” he said, alluding to the insistent tug he felt earlier.

“No,” she said, sitting up, his tunic falling from her shoulder low enough that he could see the swell of her breasts—breasts that bore _all_ the marks of his affection from the night before. “I called you here because I knew you’d be summoned to the camps to play General, and I wanted you all to myself before then. Now stop pouting and kiss me.”

He obeyed her, choking off the retort that he was _not_ pouting because the promise of her lips was too much of a temptation to resist.  

He lowered her back onto the bed, his wings enveloping them both as he buried a hand into that silken fall of golden-brown hair. He coaxed her lips apart with his teeth before plundering her mouth with his tongue. Her eyes shuttered as her arms slid up the muscles of his back, fingers tracing the deep scratches she made there. 

A ripple of concern fluttered through their bond.

“Do they hurt?” she asked.

“Only in the best way,” he said, grinning against her mouth.

“I should at least put some salve on them,” she said, trying to squirm out from underneath him.

He raised himself on his forearms, stilling her. “Leave it, Nesta. Let me show them off for a bit, hm?”

She snorted. “You really _are_ a brute, aren’t you?”

“You like it,” he said, burying his nose into her neck, breathing in deep.

Though he only had less than an hour, he intended to make the most of it. 

She did not deny him.

* * *

It would take decades to rebuild what they had lost at Hybern’s hands, though the new recruits were promising. Unblooded, but promising. If they could get their heads out of their asses long enough to pay attention in the field, that is. Many of them reminded of himself when he was younger. As eager for the next fight as they were about their next breath, the song of the wind and the dream of war and glory coursing through their veins.

And if Cassian thought the new recruits had been gawking at him before, it was nothing compared to what they were doing now. Especially when he stripped off his armor for a midday sparring session. The patchwork of bites and bruises that covered him from neck to navel were definitely _not_ from the previous day’s training—and those where just the places that the recruits _could see_.  

“Show off,” said Rhys, unsheathing his sword.

Cassian replied with a feral grin before dropping into a defensive stance.

The recruits all stood along the edges of the chalk ring, which was much larger in circumference than the ones drawn for novice-warriors. Cassian didn’t mind an audience, but he didn’t enjoy the spectacle—how he and Rhys had to constantly prove their strength and worthiness again and again to their people.

Such things were still necessary. Not every recruit looked at them with admiration. In fact, more than a few looked at them with barely checked disdain and open prejudice. It was a look that Cassian thought he would have gotten used to over the centuries. He was surprised that he still hadn’t.

Rhys’ violet eyes caught the new red ribbon tied to the crossguard of Cassian’s sword, then appraised the braids woven into Cassian’s hair.

“Your hair is prettier than usual.”

“I’m prettier than you now, thanks to Nesta.”

“Not possible,” said Rhys, before lunging forward.

Cassian blocked his lunge, then feinted left before landing an earth-shattering blow. Rhys blocked it with his shield, the clang resounding past the ring and into the mountains beyond.

Strike. Block. Parry. Strike. Lunge. Feint. Block. Thrust. Duck. Roll. The sequence they were doing was a new one that Cassian had planned to teach the recruits. And the young soldiers around them—the ones who weren’t sneering, that is—were taking note.

“ _Mor says that Nesta handled herself well_ ,” said Rhys, mind-to-mind. “ _She said she acted like a ‘seasoned diplomat.’ The delegates in Vassa’s court said that she could wield words like weapons. No one could withstand her in a debate._ ”

Cassian was hardly surprised.

“ _That’s my woman_.”   

“ _You know, there was a time when Mor and I seriously questioned your taste. Amren, I hear, questioned Nesta's senses instead._ ”

Cassian growled. He knew that Rhys was trying to goad him into switching into the offensive. Their soldiers not only had to recognize that Rhys was their High Lord, but that Cassian was their General Commander.

Cassian was only too happy to oblige. 

He pivoted, making another feint before sweeping his blade near Rhys’ open flank. Had they been doing this in earnest, Cassian could have plunged his sword between Rhys’ ribs. The thought of it made him wince, but he knew that Rhys never wanted him to perform less than his best, especially when they were being watched.

“ _You fit well together_ ,” said Rhys finally, as their swords clashed in a deadlock. “ _It wasn’t as obvious at first. But you do._ ”

It was true. Feyre and Rhys were the stars and the night sky. Their togetherness made sense. But Nesta and Cassian? They were made for each other in a different way—steel and fire, flame and forge. Their joining was not a sonnet, but a war ballad. But Cassian wouldn’t have it any other way. He was hers, just as she was his.

Another turn. Another pivot. Another strike. One more lunge forward and Rhys had knocked away Cassian’s sword, following it with a swift and brutal kick that sent Cassian on his knees.

But Cassian quickly recovered, rolling away to buy him enough time to reach for the dagger at his belt—Nesta’s mating gift to him.

And right before Rhys could strike ‘the final blow,’ Cassian swept the dagger a hair’s breadth away from his High Lord’s jugular.

Stalemate. Around them, the soldiers tittered.

They grinned at each other before falling back, sheathing their weapons once again.

A shadow circled and passed overhead, followed by Azriel landing next to them with a grim expression.

“Uh oh,” said Rhys. “Smells like trouble.”

“Indeed,” said Azriel. “Said trouble is in the female camp. My shadows tell me there’s a male squadron leader acting out of line—thought he could use a personal visit from the General.”

Cassian swore as he touched the Siphon at his belt, donning his full armor once more.

“Need me to come along?” said Rhys.

“Not a chance,” said Cassian, his wings beating for take-off. “These pups need to learn who’s in charge of this pack.”

Rhys smirked. “Show them how hard the High Lord’s dog bites.”

* * *

 

The female camp was kept several miles away from the main pavilions, and was understandably much smaller. For every fifty of the male soldiers in their legions, there was one female whose wings had not been clipped and who showed an affinity for combat. Their squadron only numbered in the dozens, some of them barely on the cusp of womanhood. And though it would be years before they could fight alongside their brothers, they all showed potential.

Potential that would continue to be quashed whenever some stupid male got into his head to harass them. It didn’t matter how hard Cassian threatened—Illyrians didn’t respond to threats, they responded to action. And Cassian was all too ready to unleash his his pent-up rage and aggression if meant keeping these bigoted males in line.

But he soon realized that he wouldn’t have to.

Because Nesta had beat him to it.

Cassian almost felt sorry for the male squadron leader who, from this distance, looked like a handsome little lordling—a prince by his look and bearing. His name was Balthasar, if Cassian remembered correctly. His father had been close with Azriel’s stepmother, which most likely meant that he had no shortage of cruelty running through his bloodline.  

Cassian landed with his arms crossed, keeping his face neutral as he watched the tense scene unfold before him. Even their bond remained inert and silent for now, almost taut and expectant, as he waited to see what Nesta would do.

She was wearing a different set of armor—the one with the red scales that he had placed on the dummy in his tent. It had somehow molded to the shape of her long and lithe body, accommodating her shape and size so well that he made a note to have the Dawn Court send him another set.

“They should know their place,” snarled Balthasar, not even bothering to acknowledge that his General Commander had arrived. The females looked at one another in dismay. “They belong in the birthing bed, not the battlefield.”

Nesta looked neither convinced or intimidated. She stood between Balthasar and the female squadron like a plains-cat defending her pride.  

Balthasar stood his ground, but he didn't dare step closer. All of his legions were, to some degree, afraid of Nesta—and his wicked mate knew it. _Cauldron-born_ , the superstitious called her. _The She-Demon. The Storm Witch._ Like the rest of the Inner Circle, Nesta understood how to use the fear that others had of her against them.

“The way I see it, you should know _your_ place.” She unsheathed the sword at her belt, a long and silvery white blade etched with Illyrian symbols—his mating gift to _her._

“You’re not seriously thinking of challenging me?”

Cassian didn’t know whether the boy was being brave or stupid, then decided on the latter when the boy had the gall to look at him as though a word from his lips could stop what had been set in motion.

 _The Storm Witch._ Yes….and like a storm, Nesta could not be stopped.

Nesta pounced in a burst of speed that left the air around them crackling. Balthasar never had a chance, though to his credit, he had stood his ground and tried to block her relentless onslaught with increasing futility.

Nesta moved like mercury and struck like lightning, each one of her maneuvers deadly, efficient, and precise—and she was only toying with him. If he were a hawk, then she was a dragon. The females whispered to one another, awe-struck. 

 _What have I told you about playing with your food?_ He chided through their bond.

_But it always tastes better when I do..._

He laughed aloud. It was a shame that Nesta never wanted to train with him on principle, claiming that doing so would ‘distract her in the worst way.’ Like the stubborn female she was, she renounced learning how to fight like an Illyrian, wanting instead to learn a style that would be unique to herself.

So Amren took her under her wing and taught her the sword-dancing style of the Xian masters.

Cassian had been admittedly put out by this, at first. But he could see from her movements how the Xian form and technique suited her well. It still didn’t stop him from vowing that he would one day get Nesta riled enough to spar with him. Just watching her made his blood race… Yet seeing her move within the symphony of battle, and discovering her place in it, made him want her in ways that went beyond sharing flesh. 

 _You fit well together,_ Rhys had said.

Yes they did—heart, mind, body, and soul.

Balthasar was flagging. Though he had more strength, Nesta overpowered him with her reach and experience. True to his nature, Balthasar did not give in, not even when Nesta’s sword alighted, washing the blade in an aura of white fire. Cauldron fire. The kind that burned in her blue-grey eyes whenever she was honing in for the kill.

A loud crack rent the air as Balthasar’s sword shattered, his shield burned to ash. The tip of Nesta’s blade hovered over the membrane of one of Balthasar’s wings as he lay before her, panting and prostrate. 

“Just the right incision here and here would render you completely helpless,” said Nesta, her voice almost pleasant. “Aren’t Illyrians supposed to protect their wings at all costs? Even the children know that.”

Balthasar looked to Cassian again. “Are you honestly going to stand for this?”

“I command the legions.” He shrugged. “I don’t command my mate.”

A surge of pride flared between their bond, the emotion shining from both ends of the bridge.

“You’re not to terrorize these girls ever again,” said Nesta. “And if I hear otherwise, your wings won’t be the only things I’ll snip.” She pushed her blade against the apple of Balthasar’s throat. “And if you even _think_ of exacting some petty revenge for your humiliation today, know that I’ll make you wish I had dealt with you the same way I dealt with Hybern. Do we have an understanding?”

Balthasar swallowed, then nodded. She released him then and turned back to the females.

“The next time you train, remember his face. Remember the faces of all those in the camp who look at you the way he does—like you are worthless, like you are nothing. Remember their faces and know...you did not fit the mold that they shoved you into. You tried, and yet you did not, _could not_ , fit. Today is the day that you realize that the path before you has changed. And you can look to me now to guide you.”

They looked at her like she was the war goddess Althea, wife of Enalius, come among them again. But if she noticed their ardor—or Cassian’s for that matter—she did not acknowledge it.

Instead, her face remained grim, determined, and to those who knew it, hopeful.

* * *

“Gods, I fucking love you.” 

They had rushed back to Cassian’s tent in a flurry of beating wings and rapidly disappearing clothes. His mouth was a burning brand on her skin as Nesta arched into his every touch. This was not the tender and heated coupling they had the night before—whatever this was, it was rough and blistering and beast-like.

Perhaps _this_ was the true meaning of bloodlust.

“All fours,” he whispered jaggedly into her ear. “On the bed. Now.”  

She moaned as she did as she was bid, that lovely ass bared to him in invitation. He bent over her, hand braced on her neck, taking her harder than he ever had, the noises their bodies made almost obscene. The bond between them sang with pure and carnal delight, and it was all Cassian could do to not collapse under the sheer bliss of it all.

He had once been ashamed to take her this way, ashamed of rutting against her like some animal raised in the mud. He wanted their love-making to be like the kind in the stories she admired, where every caress was reverent and adoring. But Nesta assured him that she loved all the ways they joined. She did so even now, when she looked over her shoulder to capture the expression of worship that was sure to be stamped all over his face.

They found their peak in the same moment, their bodies sinking into the furs as Cassian rode out the aftershocks, his hips slowly rocking into hers as he spent himself inside her. He kissed her afterwards—blazing a trail from the center of her shoulder blades to the top of her spine, then sweeping aside her hair to leave another damning bruise on her neck.

“You smell like me…,” he said, smug and pleased.

“I think that’s my cue to take another bath,” she muttered. “But I don’t think I can walk anymore.”

“Don’t flatter me if you’re planning to get any sleep at all tonight,” he said, nipping her ear. She complained as he slid out of her body, standing over her to scoop her up into his arms and carry her out into the hot spring just outside his tent.

The hot spring was shallow enough that Nesta didn’t mind submerging herself into it, and the surrounding outcropping was high enough to give them both privacy. He reached for the soaps that he kept along the edges, proceeding to wash every inch of her, kissing her everywhere. When he was finished, she washed him in turn—and then she sunk down on him to take him inside of her again. This time, much slower. More sweetly.

Cassian gasped after his second climax, clutching her close to him. “I never told you last night how much I…how much I...”

_Why couldn’t he finish saying the words?_

“How much you missed me?” she said gently.

He kissed her brow, breathing in her lovely scent once again into his lungs. “Missed you? No. What I felt when you were gone...sometimes it went _beyond_ missing you, Nesta. There were days where it almost killed me. I have no idea how Rhys and Feyre managed to stand it.”

“I know the feeling,” she said quietly, smoothing out the anxious plains of his face. “I fought tooth and nail….and queen to get back to you. So there’s nothing to fret about, beloved. I’m home now. Home is you.”

He felt her then, through their bond. It wrecked him, just knowing how deep her love for him went. He knew firsthand that his mate felt things more keenly than most. But what everyone didn’t see...was how endless her devotion could be, like a well or spring that would never dry. It was a side of her that she almost never shared with others, and it filled him with a strange kind of sorrow that only he, and perhaps her sisters, would ever know that.

Suddenly, he knew what Feyre had meant. Her words an echo from a lifetime ago, on that bridge across the Sidra…

_She will never love freely and gift it to everyone who crosses her path. But the few she does care for...I think Nesta would shred the world apart for them. Shred herself apart for them._

He pulled her closer into his embrace, his hand idly stroking through her wet hair.

“Rhys...Rhys said that he has a new mission for me.”

Cassian stilled. She pushed back from to look into his eyes. He swallowed. “And do you wish to go?”

“I do,” she said, and his heart plummeted despite knowing better. As a general, he understood the responsibility to their court more than most, and it would only be natural that Nesta would be swept along by her duty. “I...I want to take the girls with me, Cassian. They need to get out of this camp. See the world. Understand that there's more to life than breeding. And...and I want _you_ to come with me.”

He stilled again, his thumb brushing her lips. “Come with you?”

“Of course,” she said, fiercely. “I’ll not leave you behind. I’ll not leave you _ever_. If I can help it.”

Cassian kissed her, swiftly, the fire between them burning and burning as his heart soared.

“I look forward to sharing your adventures with you, sweetheart.” He tipped up her chin, eyes shining. “And besides, I don’t think we’ve ever had a proper...what do humans call it? Honeymoon.”

She laughed, her arms wrapping around him as his wings enveloped them both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who enjoyed Homecoming! Hope you’ll join me on even more Nessian adventures in the near future ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments feed the author :)


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